He woke up in straw with his six-gun, Colt Army, in his hand. Outside the barn Yankee scouts were searching for him.

His first two shots were for cover for his run from the barn to the woods. The third shot went into a Yankee belly, right when that Yank’s bayonet went into his. They caught each other by surprise at the tree line.

The fourth shot bought his chance to run from muskets coming up on his rear. Musket balls broke branches all about him as he rushed through the woods.

He found a huntsman’s shack and slipped inside. The fifth shot went to the padlock on a trap door in the floor. Padlock in hand, he slipped through the door, underneath the shack, eased the door shut, said a prayer.

He took his last bullet out of the cylinder. It was a chance to take out one more Yankee. Maybe take his musket, then take another Yank, another musket. Make a chain of dead Yankees all the way back to Charlotte.

He kissed that sixth bullet, then loaded it. Bleeding, he pointed the gun at the trapdoor, and breathed.